


a place to call home

by arcadianwriter (noxstories)



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Denial, Dream is in Prison, Dream is somewhat sympathetic in this ie you can see his motives and feel sorry for him, Hallucinations, Prison Arc, he's also delusional : D, self destructive tendencies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28967508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noxstories/pseuds/arcadianwriter
Summary: Dream builds himself a cottage, and finally has a place to call home, until the world burns down around him[AKA,Four times Dream tries to delude himself, and one time he is forced to be honest.]
Comments: 105
Kudos: 511
Collections: Completed stories I've read, Dreamwastaken Angst/Other Dream-centric fanfics, Jester's Collection





	1. halcyon days

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! welcome back to yet ANOTHER fic starring dsmp!dream because i'm obsessed with that fucker :')
> 
> i hope you enjoy - i'm super fond of manipulating reality in my fics, so this centers around that idea!! it's a little trippy and might put some people in a bad headspace due to the general delusions dsmp!dream has; please be careful while reading!!
> 
> here's chapter one: i hope you enjoy!!

Dream builds himself a cottage, and finally has a place to call home.

It’s nothing too big; it’s a one-room little place, almost cramped despite its emptiness, but the sunlight streams in through the windows and he’s content most days sitting watching the flowers grow outside and for the first time in years he thinks he might actually be at peace, so it’s enough. For him, it’s enough. 

Most mornings, he wakes up to watch the sun rise, eats a quick breakfast, and lazes about most of the morning: despite running the server, there’s not a lot he needs to do nowadays. He writes a lot. He’d always wanted to be a writer, before everything, so it’s nice to have the chance to act on that now. He writes, he thinks, he watches, and he feels calm.

Most days, anyway.

It sometimes gets lonely in the cottage, he’ll admit it freely. It’s in the middle of nowhere, with nobody around for miles and miles, and if it hadn’t been for the visitors that appear sometimes and keep him company, then he’s sure he’d have lost his mind by this point. But he has his friends, he has his home, and he feels like he’s only missing one thing.

He can’t quite put a finger on what it is.

When he wakes up that morning, stretching his sore limbs in the early sunlight, Sapnap is already at his door, watching him sleep.

Dream jerks awake instantly, startled but pleased. “Sapnap,” he says cheerfully, voice grating against the hoarseness in his throat, “hi. You didn’t say you’d come by today.”

Sapnap just stares at him wordlessly like he’s seen a ghost, face ashen and solemn and tired. Really tired. His friend looks exhausted, and Dream heads towards him, concern twisting his stomach into knots. 

“When was the last time you slept?” He asks, frowning. “You look like shit.”

“Dream.” Sapnap says his name like a prayer, or maybe like a curse. A smile finds its way to his lips nonetheless, ghostlike, but present. “Like you’re one to talk about looking shit. You’re a mess.”

Dream laughs. “I just woke up,” he replies, “I have an excuse. But hey, you caught me at the perfect time. Breakfast is here.”

Because though he’s calm and at peace, that doesn’t mean he’s still - for as long as he’d lived, Dream had never been still. He’d forever been pacing and fidgeting and moving in some way; so his eyes land on the breakfast lying on top of his chest, and, with a smile, he brings it over to sit cross legged beside Sapnap. His body is in so much pain, and it hurts to sit, but he’s beside his best friend and he’s happy, not fussy.

Sapnap stiffens when Dream sits beside him like he hadn’t expected him to do so - which is stupid, in Dream’s mind, because they’re _Sapnap and Dream,_ two thirds of a team, _the_ team, but he knows Sapnap is still jumpy from the war and everything, so he ignores his friend’s flinch, sliding the plate over to him in offer.

“Hungry?”

“...Nah. Nah, I already ate,” Sapnap says, uncertain in his own answer, “besides, you don’t look like yourself. You should try and eat more.”

Dream rolls his eyes. “Okay, Mom, but I eat enough. And eating more means hunting more, which means going outside to find more. I’m fine with what I have, I promise.”

There’s an odd expression on Sapnap’s face that might be defeat. Dream can’t read his best friend like he used to be able to, much to his dismay. “You have a point,” he sighs eventually, “but you can eat it. I’m just glad to see you.”

“So am I.” Dream tucks in, ignoring the taste - he eats a lot of potatoes now, he realizes: when was the last time he’d had a meal without potatoes? He should ask for that to be changed. “I was almost beginning to get lonely.” He throws a teasing grin at Sapnap, who doesn’t return it. “Don’t leave it so long to visit me next time. I could cry.”

Sapnap sucks in a breath, seeming to find weight in the weightless joke. “You’re lonely?” He asks, like he doesn’t know Dream is a social person, like he doesn’t know his best friend gets agitated when he’s kept cooped up, like he doesn’t know how much this is _killing_ Dream.

Dream laughs despite this, the negative thoughts disappearing into the darkness almost as soon as he thinks them.

“It’s not that bad, I was just being overdramatic, I promise, Sap,” he says, “come on, tell me everything that’s been going on. How is everyone?”

So Sapnap, dropping the topic despite the look on his face, begins filling Dream in on everything. Dream tucks his chin up to his knees and listens to his best friend talk about life. Niki and her bakery and the way the scent of freshly baked bread drifts through the SMP every morning at seven o’clock sharp. Quackity, relearning how to fly, learning to hold his wings up high despite being torn and tattered, a modern day Icarus climbing out of the sea and learning how to live again. Dream learns of Eret’s museum and how she gave up her crown, and hears about Purpled’s latest invention, and listens as Sapnap tells him about Ranboo diligently trying to learn Ender so he can communicate with the Endermen, talk them into a truce with the server residents. Dream listens to all of his best friend’s news, taking it all in, and he can’t help but smile.

Peace and unity. Just what he’d wanted all along.

He’s silent when Sapnap finishes, letting him gather himself, and tries not to think of the whisper in the back of his head that murmurs _what would you be doing if you were out there?_ Because listening to that whisper only leads to pain, and to suffering, and to darkness, and Dream is done with darkness, he’s done being hurt and hurting others. So he pushes those thoughts out of his mind, slowly, steadily, and flashes a bright smile at Sapnap.

“So much is happening, huh?” He says with a rueful grin. “You always have new stories to tell me every time you visit. Sounds like things are going well.”

“I tell you the same things every day,” Sapnap says quietly, and there’s something terrible and full of grief in his voice, “you just don’t remember.”

Dream, as he does with every snippet of information he learns and doesn’t want to hear, laughs it off. “You always sound so sad, Sap. Cheer up. Things _are_ going well, right?”

And they are, no matter what the expression on Sapnap’s face tells him. The server is at peace, the server is happy, and that means Dream’s happy. Of course he is - he’s got his own home for the first time in years, a place to sleep and a place to sob and a place where nobody cares if he screams. The walls are burning hot, and sometimes when he presses his hand against the sunlight it burns his skin, but he always wakes up in water again, so it’s not so bad. He’s got a clock that ticks in his small room and inside his head and under his skin, and he’s got so many books to write his stories in. Things aren’t so bad, especially when the rest of the server is so happy.

“What’ve you been up to?” His best friend asks softly instead of answering, and Dream doesn’t hesitate, letting his back touch the burning wall without so much as a flinch and lapsing into explanation.

“I’ve been writing, mostly.” He pushes himself to his feet, pulling out one of his favorite books and handing it to Sapnap eagerly. “I never had enough time before all this. I have so much free time now - I can do whatever I want! Within reason.”

Sapnap begins flipping through the book, a curious expression crossing his face. “Oh yeah? What do you write about?”

Dream purses his lips. He wants to see how Sapnap likes his writing. “Myself, sometimes,” he says, watching Sapnap stiffen, “and you guys. I like to write about the happy ending we all got.”

Sapnap sucks in a breath like he’s been stabbed. “Dream, man, _please.”_

“Because,” Dream continues, quicker, louder, to drown him out, “because, uh, sometimes I wake up and forget where I am. And I wonder if I’m imagining everything. But-” He smiles, cheek-splittingly wide. “But then I remember that everything worked out for the best.”

Looking sick, Sapnap hurries through the pages. He doesn’t look at all happy with what he finds. Oh, Dream thinks, maybe he’s not as good a writer as he’d thought. Squinting at the book in his friend’s hands, he deciphers what he can from the messy scribbles.

 _Once upon a time there was a boy with two masks,_ the first page begins.

Another page. -and _everything hurt so much, so he decided to hurt everything in return-_

Another page. -one _mask pushed him to burn down his home, and the other mask pushed him from his friends-_

 _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,_ another reads. Dream isn’t as proud of that page as he is the others. He doesn’t really remember writing it.

“It’s a work in progress,” he tells Sapnap, suddenly self-conscious of his own skill, “it’s not perfect yet, but I’m pretty happy with how it’s going. What- What do you think?”

Sapnap is quiet for a long, long time. Too long, actually. Just when Dream’s beginning to let his anxiety get the best of him, Sapnap stands up jerkily, the book falling to the floor. Dream picks it up, cradling it to his chest before it gets burned. 

“I need to go,” he hears, and feels disappointment crush him, “I need- God, Dream. _God.”_

“Sapnap?” He presses, worried. “Hey, hey, man, talk to me. What’s going on? Are you okay?” _Did I do something wrong?_ He can’t bring himself to ask. He’s scared of the truth. 

Sapnap closes his eyes briefly. “I can’t play along with you,” he confesses like it’s a sin, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t notice that you were gone sooner.”

“Gone?” Baffled, Dream takes Sapnap’s shoulders gently. “I’m right here.”

“Where’s here?”

“My cottage,” he answers instantly, and is met with a look of devastation, “right?”

He doesn’t get an answer. Sapnap hugs him tightly - too tightly, Dream can’t breathe, he’s drowning in lava and _it hurts, it hurts, there’s a sword at his throat and his plans are failing and there are too many people and for the first time in forever he feels so so scared_ \- and leaves his cottage in a different way from how he’d arrived. Good mood gone, Dream buries himself in the corner of his cottage, chest heaving for calm, covering his face with his hands. His fingers graze against smooth porcelain. 

If he forces himself to concentrate, he can almost smell freshly cut grass again and hear something outside of the sizzle of lava.


	2. broken cup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you know where you are?” Dream says, half concerned.
> 
> Wilbur scoffs, eyes hard, unforgiving. “Do you?” He asks, and it’s almost a nasty question.
> 
> Of course I do, Dream goes to say, before stopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back to a second chapter!! this one,, actually made me incredibly sad to write, so look forward to that :(  
> i don't think wilbur is mean, no matter how this fic portrays him - in my mind, he's victorious tommy and tubbo won, triumphant dream is in prison, and very, very angry that dream hurt his family. dream is just in ,, an incredibly fragile mental state wdhfkdbfk
> 
> trigger warnings: self destructive tendencies, accidental self injury, breakdowns, memory loss, mentions of all c!dream's past crimes/wrongdoings
> 
> enjoy the chapter!! :)

Dream finds himself in a cottage, and finally has a place to call home. The one thing that upsets him about it is that it’s far away from where his friends are. And he loves his friends. He does. Everything he does, he does for them - for their safety, for their protection, for their good. Sometimes he can get a little carried away, he knows this, but his friends are always there to pull him back down to earth. They’re there to help him, and for that, Dream can’t be more grateful. He knows that if they asked, he’d give his life for them in a heartbeat, no questions asked. 

He loves his friends more than anything in the world, which is why it’s a little disappointing when nobody really comes to visit after Sapnap, who visits him everyday without fail before dropping off the face of the planet and not coming back. Dream is worried, for a while - he finds himself awake at night screaming after nightmares where Sapnap dies horribly in a plethora of ways - and his fears aren’t reassured either in his waking hours, with no knowledge about whether his best friend is alive or dead. He messages him sometimes on the communicator they all have, that he’s been allowed to keep, thank God, but never gets an answer. 

And then he sees an exchange a few days after his nightmare.

> **Karl: hey!! i’m back**
> 
> **Sapnap: KARL**

And it’s a funny exchange, and brightens his day for a bit - haha, he thinks, haha, Sapnap spelled Karl’s name wrong, if I was there, I’d laugh at him for that - but Dream can’t help but feel…

Lonely, he thinks the word might be. He thinks he might be lonely.

Which is okay, because the main thing is that his friends are safe and sound. He’s not exactly in a bad position, either - lonely, yes, always, but he’s got a warm cottage to live in and lots to keep himself entertained by, so it’s not so bad. His friends are busy, he knows this, and so he stops trying to message Sapnap completely, confident he’ll have visitors before long.

One wish he has, though, if he’s allowed to have wishes, is that it would rain at some point. Dream adores the sunlight, he always has, but this sunlight burns when he tries to walk outside in it, burning and peeling his skin until he wakes up in an icy cold bath with scorches and burns. He never quite remembers running himself a bath, and he’s stupid to take a bath with his clothes still on, but it’s okay - it passes the time. 

And he hasn’t been happy in a long time, but that’s what the tight, painful feeling in his chest is, right?

Except he’s started to notice things about his cottage that don’t add up, sometimes. Like the way the sunlight burns his skin. Like how he never seems to make his own meals nowadays. Like how it’s always sunny, from the moment he wakes up to the moment he collapses in a heap on the floor.

...There’s no bed, either, he realizes after a while has passed. Maybe someone had taken it for a joke; Tommy, maybe, because he’s forever playing practical jokes. Dream thinks it’s how he expresses his feelings of care for someone. He remembers the amount of jokes Tommy had played on Tubbo and Wilbur over the years; remembers, with fondness, that Tommy had just started to do the same to him before the war started.

The war. Which war? His head aches, and Dream forces himself to forget.

But nobody comes to visit, and he’s left in his cottage alone for quite a while. It’s hard to keep track of things; impossible to keep track of the time that passes despite the clock on his wall, and Dream feels everything begin to blend into one long day that never ends. He’s tired, worn out and tired, but he hums himself to sleep, voice scratchy from disuse and cheerful, and tries to keep up this melody throughout the day too. 

“What song are you singing?” He’s asked one day, the silence breaking. 

Dream looks up, eyes widening at the sight of Wilbur. The leader of L’Manburg looks exhausted; there are dark rings under his eyes and he has a tuft of white hair streaking through his fringe that he thinks he’s seen before, but a visitor is a visitor, even if it’s Wilbur, and so Dream smiles, cheeks aching from the genuity of it all. 

“Wilbur,” he says, brightly, “hello. You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

Wilbur raises a quizzical eyebrow, stepping inside nonetheless. “How would I have told you?” He asks, eyes raking around his cottage before landing on him again. “Jesus, you’re a mess.”

He knows he’s seen better days. That’s impossible to deny - his skin is sunburned and his clothes are dirty and his hands won’t stop shaking and he doesn’t know why. But Dream mentions none of this right now, because Wilbur is his visitor, the first visitor he’s had in a while, and so he doesn’t want to start complaining. Instead, he grins. “I’ve missed you.”

“It has been a while,” Wilbur agrees, and doesn’t say  _ I miss you too. _ Dream tells himself he doesn’t mind. “What’ve you been up to in here all by yourself?” 

“Nothing much.” Dream is honest, laughing wryly. “I mean, there’s not much to do. Not that I mind. I don’t mind at all. I’ve mostly been thinking. I don’t do a lot of writing anymore.” And then, because his mind is never off these two, he has to ask, slightly desperately, “have you seen Sapnap and George anywhere?”

Wilbur comes to rest in the center of his cottage, eyes roaming over Dream’s face like he’s looking for familiarity. He doesn’t answer his question. “This is the first time I’ve seen your face in a while,” he comments quietly.

Dream blinks, bringing his hand to his face. “What do you mean?”

“Well, the mask. Usually you’re wearing that.”

_ Usually _ is a strong word, in Dream’s opinion. Because the only times he wears the mask is when he’s when he’s around enemies, and sometimes in a manhunt. He has no need to wear a mask around the SMP, and even less need to wear one around Wilbur. Even in the war he’d kept his mask off except from in high-intensity situations - he hadn't wanted to expose just how painful it had been to fight his family and friends. “Come on, now,” he scoffs, “I don’t wear it that much.”

Wilbur goes to speak. “Dream-”

“Do you want tea or coffee?” Dream interrupts, unable to listen to Wilbur’s words. “I mean, I’m kind of running low on some things, hah, but we have hot drinks and cold drinks. And- And potatoes, but I think they’ve gone stale now. They’re old. I need to get more, soon. Maybe I should start a farm.”

As he speaks, he crosses to his chest, pulling out a little cup he’s been given and returning to Wilbur with an air of curiosity. Wilbur just stares at him with a frown on his face, clearly trying to work something out. He’s not even in his L’Manburg outfit, Dream notes in surprise, why is that?

“Tea or coffee?”

“Dream,” Wilbur says, slowly, cautiously, like he’s speaking to a wild animal, “Dream, you don’t have any tea or coffee.”

Dream rolls his eyes. “Are you trying to gaslight me?” He teases, ignoring the way the tremor in his hands gets more pronounced. “Come on, look, I’m going to guess because you’re British that you want tea, quit being difficult and tell me if I’m right.”

Wilbur’s frown grows bigger on his face, but he nods as if he’s playing along with a lonely child’s game. “Tea, yes, please.”

Finally. Rolling his eyes, Dream takes the cup cradled in his hands to the front door to pour the tea into it, humming a tune under his breath as he does so. Some spills, as it always does, but he doesn’t mind; it’s not as bad as the burn when he actually goes outside. This is tolerable - his hands are frozen anyway, so it’s nice to heat them up, even though it leaves his fingers red raw and peeling. 

“What the fuck,” Wilbur hisses, yanking the cup off Dream and pulling him back inside, “what the fuck, Dream.”

The cup is smashed, tea spilling out everywhere, and Dream makes a little noise of protest. Of course he’s happy that Wilbur is here to visit, but that had been the only thing he had to drink out of. “My cup…”

“Your-” Wilbur makes a noise, half startled, half alarmed. “Your fucking cup doesn’t matter, Dream, what about your hands? You just stuck them into lava, what the hell?”

Lava? No, no, that’s not right. Dream blinks, the sun from the window streaming into his cottage. He feels so cold. 

“Wilbur, don’t be stupid. I don’t live near any lava,” he begins, trying not to let the other see he was worried about him. Had Wilbur lost his mind? He knows that being the President is hard, but has it really gotten so bad for Wilbur? “Do you know where you are?”

Wilbur scoffs, eyes hard, unforgiving. “Do you?” He asks, and it’s almost a nasty question.

_ Of course I do, _ Dream goes to say, before stopping.

Memory is a funny thing. It comes and goes in the oddest of ways, leaving him victim to the reminders it brings. In that moment, all Dream can do is stand there, stuck in place and frozen in time. He remembers Wilbur and Tommy at the election, winning the election, losing the election, losing their citizenship. He remembers Schlatt’s laughs. He remembers something cold and clinical curling inside of him watching the spectacle, remembers turning away, remembers choosing not to kill Schlatt where he’d stood, remembers, remembers. 

And things reset. Dream blinks, seeing Wilbur standing in front of him, and his face lights up in a smile.

“Wilbur!” He says brightly, “hello. You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

Wilbur’s face, bewildered and surprise, hardens, cools into something cruel. “Selective memory, have we, Dream?” He asks, almost playfully, and Dream frowns. 

“No, I don’t think so. My memory’s actually pretty good.”

“Is it?” Wilbur muses. There’s a white streak in his hair - it feels familiar, though it hadn’t been there the last time he’d seen Wilbur, had it? Dream’s head hurts so much. “That’s actually why I was here, now that I think about it. I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Fire ahead,” Dream says, slightly on edge, but turning away to make Wilbur something to drink, “do you want-”

He stops dead at the sight of the shattered cup on the ground behind him.

“Oh,” he says, softly, “my cup. Nevermind.”

Wilbur chuckles, but it’s not a nice sound. Now that Dream thinks about it, Wilbur sounds angry with him, something dark and vicious coiled under his clean, neat words. “I don’t need a drink. I won’t be here long, it’s alright, man. I just wanted to ask…”

He pauses, considering his words while Dream tries to clean up the mess on the floor.

“Do you remember almost killing Tubbo and Tommy, Dream?”

Dream, not for the first or second time that day, freezes. One of the shards of the cup digs painfully into his hand, but it’s easy to ignore amidst the cloud of thoughts that settle on his shoulders like he’s Atlas holding up the sky. Like he’s Theseus, fighting a monstrosity.

No, no, he’s  _ Lycomedes. _ Who’s Lycomedes? Why does that name ring warning bells in his head?”

“Wilbur, I… Look, what happened in the war was a mistake.” He speaks quietly, voice low, as if there’s anyone around to hear him confess. “I went too far, I let my anger get the best of me and I hurt all of the L’Manburg fighters. It was only supposed to be a petty little thing. It wasn’t supposed to get out of hand. I’m sorry.”

Wilbur is shaking his head before Dream has even finished speaking, eyes alight with amusement. His hands find Dream’s shoulders, but instead of comforting, steadying, forgiving, they hold him in place, stop him from running, not that there’s anywhere to run in the first place. “No, no, Dream, I’m not talking about the war, not that war. I’m talking about afterwards.”

His fingers dig in tight enough to bruise. There’s a glimmer of the old Wilbur in his eyes, the Wilbur who blew up, the Wilbur who, Wilbur,  _ Wilbur, _ who is Wilbur?

“I’m talking about the Manburg war,” Wilbur smiles, all teeth and vengeance, “I’m talking about the exile, the manipulation, the threats and the lies and the way you turned them on each other like dogs.”

Dream’s mouth dries. “What?” He whispers.

“I’m talking about making two sixteen year old kids sail halfway across your world to find you, to fight for the only fucking items they care about, only for you to deny them their items and to fight them half to death. I’m talking about using their traumas against them, I’m talking about you making  _ my little brother _ pick between his best friend and the discs only to try and take both away from him in the end.”

He can’t listen to this, he can’t. Clutching his ears tightly to try and block Wilbur in, Dream wrenches himself out of Wilbur’s grip, staggering back and shaking his head vehemently. His cottage, he reminds himself, his home. He’s not going to let Wilbur lie to him and tell him he’s anything other than happy. “Shut up.”

“Can’t handle the truth?” Wilbur’s smile is razor sharp and cuts straight through to Dream’s heart. “I know you remember, Dream, deep down. I know you’re trying to delude yourself into forgetting. But I have a bone to pick with you about all this, and now I’m alive again-”

Alive again, alive again, Dream watches Wilbur die in front of his eyes in a million different ways, each more distressing and closer to the truth than the last. He wants to scream.

“-I thought I’d finally pay you a visit now I’m all recovered. Thanks for that, by the way.” Wilbur crosses his arms, studying Dream with the curiosity of a scientist. “I suppose you’ve blocked all that out too.”

“Shut up.” His voice is harsher this time, raw - he remembers it being that raw when they’d revived Wilbur too, however patchy those memories are. He remembers screaming until his voice had given out, raw and agonized, remembers giving up a canon life to give Wilbur one, remembers the feeling of his whole body twitching with agony on the ground. “Please.”

“No, Dream,” Wilbur hums, “I don’t think I will. Whether you want to remember or not, you’re going to have to at one point or another. You have to face the consequences for your actions, you know. You almost killed the only two people I give a fuck about on this server anymore. And you have to pay the price. The price is remembering.”

Dream thinks of Ghostbur and how much he’d tried to steer clear of his bad memories. He thinks he understands now. His cottage feels like a cage, suddenly - too restrictive, too small to escape from Wilbur. Backed up against the wall, all he can do is deny, deny, deny, the words slipping from his lips like they’re honest, like they’re truths. 

Because he can’t remember. Because he’s happy now, in his cottage, why can’t anyone just let him be?

“And you know what, Dream?” Wilbur chuckles. “When Quackity told me that Sapnap said you were delusional, I didn’t believe him in the slightest. I thought you were manipulating your old friend. But that’s not true, is it? You’re all tangled in your puppet strings.” He smiles, victoriously. “You’re caught in your own lies, and I, for one, don’t have the slightest ounce of pity for you. I’m just glad the day’s finally come.”

He steps forwards, crouches, tilts Dream’s face up to face him, which is funny, Dream thinks dazedly, because they’re the same height, in fact, he’s taller by a centimeter, he’d laughed with him once over that, before the war, before everything, before he realises belatedly that he’s on his knees, slumped down against the wall.  _ Oh, _ he thinks numbly, when had that happened?

“You’re not manipulating anyone anymore,” Wilbur murmurs, “are you?”

_ You fucked up for the last time, Dream. _

_ He had it coming, someone murmurs from the circle around him while he prowls around it, a caged lion surrounded by its would-be victims. _

_ He only has himself to blame, someone else says, voice low, scornful, and Dream snarls, turning to face them and raising his axe- _

Dream blinks. Sees Wilbur. Lights up.

“Wilbur,” he smiles brightly, and there are tears dripping down his face, “hello. You- You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

And his voice is scraped, hoarse and hitched with tears - why is he crying? Had he been upset earlier? - but he’s smiling, wide and grateful, because someone’s visited him, someone wants to see him. Wilbur stares at him like he doesn’t know who he’s looking at, before stepping back abruptly. 

“Actually,” he says, slowly, like he’s just realized something, “I was just leaving.”

Dread fills Dream’s heart. He doesn’t want to be alone again. He can’t be alone again. “Wait,” he begins, “wait a minute, Wilbur, Wilbur, you just got here-”

He catches sight of the cup smashed on the floor, staring at it as he wipes away his tears. When had it smashed? Had he done that? 

“Goodbye, Dream.” Wilbur’s voice has a biting edge of finality to it. “I won’t come again.”

With an effort, Dream staggers to his feet. “Don’t go.”

Wilbur goes. Dream sinks back to his knees. A wave of equal parts disappointment and relief washes over him. He misses Wilbur so much already, misses all his friends, misses everyone on the whole server.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, “you’re happy.”

And though his body still shakes with tears, he believes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand there we have it :,) man this was heavy lol, but it will - very slowly - get better!! if you enjoyed, feel free to leave kudos/comments: they all really inspire me to keep writing! tysm for all the comments on the last chapter, ily all :)
> 
> also, to keep updated on my writing and other dream smp projects, follow me on tumblr (@dreamsdisks) or twitter (@SOOTYSHOES)!! 
> 
> have wonderful days, and stay safe!! i'll see ya in the next chapter!!


	3. a favour asked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lycomedes gets a visit from an old friend and rival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dream angst abound!! i am gonna have to write another oneshot about dream in prison after bad's visit to his cell because that shit was SAD, but in the meantime, have another chapter of dream being sad and delusional!!
> 
> i hope you enjoy!! the next two chapters are gonna be really fun >;)

Dream is imprisoned in a cottage, and finally has a place to call home.

The cottage isn’t how he remembers it being before. It’s darker, now - the sun he used to love is too bright, burning his eyes when he looks and burning his skin when he goes too close, but his other walls are shrouded with shadows that loom and sneer at him. Dream does his best to ignore them as best as he can: they say things that are untrue, blame him for things he knows he hasn’t done.

Well. He thinks. His memory feels even more unreliable than he remembers. 

But a home is still a home, so Dream tries to make the best out of it. Because he’s safe, and he’s at peace, even if it doesn’t feel like it, and the others are so, so happy. He gets joy in reading their messages now, out of context as they are: Dream finds a pastime by imagining the scenarios around the messages, picturing himself involved.

**Eret: good evening, gentlemen**

Dream closes his eyes. He’s in a garden surrounded by bees and the sun is soft and warm on his skin. Sapnap and George squabble nearby, Bad is asleep beside him. Eret sees them, calls out a greeting. All's right with the world. 

**Tubbo: WHO LET MY BEES ESCAPE :(**

He’s comforting Tubbo after he finds his beloved beehive open and the bees missing. The afternoon is spent tracking down each and every bee that escaped, bringing them back to the younger boy. Tubbo hugs him with a bright smile and grateful eyes, and Dream feels like he’s a hero of some kind, the best of the best.

**TommyInnit tried to swim in lava.**

**TommyInnit: WHATTH E FUCK**

…For some reason, trying to picture himself in this scenario makes him nauseous, makes his cottage walls crumble more than they already are. Dream curls in on himself, pressing his hands against his ears to block out the accusing whispers of the darkness and the harsh reality of the light. Eyes closed, he tells himself desperately, eyes closed, because then there’s no need to think about anything, no need to see the truth, no need to face-

“Well, well, if it isn’t Lycomedes himself,” Techno says, “finally suffering the consequences of his actions.”

Dream stiffens. Uncurls from the ball he’d become, turns to face his visitor. 

“Sam didn’t tell me you were coming,” he replies, voice ragged and raw.

Techno looks good. He’s standing without armor, of course - there’s nothing allowed in Dream’s home, other than the bare essentials - but it doesn’t make him look any less strong, any less powerful. There’s a nasty gash on his cheek that’s beginning to scab over, and his eyebrow is raised in dry inquiry; he’s the same as ever. 

“Why would Sam tell you if I was coming, if you’re all safe in your little cottage home?” 

Dream falters, tries not to think about it. “Slip of the tongue,” he says, because someone has to keep lying, “I didn’t- I didn’t mean it.”

“No.” Techno examines him closely for a second, something understanding in his eyes. “Of course you didn’t.”

And he comes closer to Dream, standing over him. It doesn’t feel like a position of power, though - Techno isn’t doing this to establish dominance, control, superiority. Dream doesn’t feel threatened. 

“Tell me about your cottage, Dream,” Techno says unprompted, “I have a coupla questions for you.”

Fear dries up Dream’s mouth. “You don’t- want to hear about that,” he laughs-  _ tries _ to laugh, because it comes out too loud, too forced, “come on, tell me what you’ve been up to. I haven’t seen you in so long. How’s- How’s retirement suiting you? How’s Phil?”

Techno looks bored. “I’ve been doing nothing, retirement is fine, Phil is fine,” he replies blandly, “your cottage, Dream. Come on. I’ve been dying to hear about it.”

Dying. A flicker of an abandoned beach party, a cobblestone power, the feeling of control. Dream’s fingers fist in his hair painfully, body hunching in on itself.

“Hey, enough of that, c’mon.” Hands seize his wrists, pull them from his hair. Under Techno’s usual monotony, there’s an inch of something, something different, something Dream remembers him using while talking about Phil, Wilbur, Ghostbur, Tommy, once, before Doomsday, before the festival. “Focus on me, man. Just talk.”

Dream tries to pull himself together. “It’s- It’s small,” he says, closing his eyes to see his cottage in his mind’s eye, “it’s made out of oak wood. Uh, my favorite.”

“Oak is your favorite?” Techno asks, snorting. “Nerd.”

He stifles a laugh at the familiarity that turns into a stifled snort. “Shut up. It’s- it’s small, it’s made out of oak wood, and… it’s pretty. Really pretty. There’s one big window, next to the door: the sun always comes through it, which is nice, because- because it can get dark in here pretty easily.”

Something about this is calming, soothing, regressive. Bit by bit, Dream relaxes.

“It can get lonely, too. But it’s not so bad. There’s loads to do.” He opens his eyes tentatively; the walls are wood again, the cottage image restored. Encouraged by this, he pushes on. “I can… think, which is nice. Or sleep. I go swimming, sometimes, and sometimes I sunbathe, but the sun is pretty hot. I write a lot, too. I did, anyway.”

Techno glances down at his hands, burned, scorched, shaking. “How’d that happen? Sunbathing?”

“Yeah.” Dream frowns, tries to remember the day. It had been a  _ bad _ one - his thoughts too loud, everything else too quiet. “Yeah, I did it too often. They don’t hurt so bad anymore. This was a while back. I just can’t write: my handwriting is practically illegible, hah.”

“Hah,” Techno echoes, but he sounds troubled, “Dream, man- I want you to look out the window for me.”

Dream’s frown only deepens. “Why?”

“Just humor me,” his rival shrugs, moving back to give him some space, “I want you to tell me what you see, okay?”

Getting to his feet - God, he’s lightheaded, if it hadn’t been for Techno steadying him he’s certain he would have fallen - Dream crosses the room to the window, peering out with a squint. It’s too bright outside to see much; or anything, actually. It hurts his head to look at for too long, so he turns back to Techno, wary of the sinking feeling in his chest. “I see the sun,” he deadpans, “is that what you wanted to show me?”

“Yeah, it is,” Techno says, “because I want you to check the time on your clock, Dream.”

Dream flinches. He doesn’t want to. The clock’s ticking fills his ears, drowns out anything else.

“Dream.” Techno repeats, firmer this time. “The clock. What time is it?”

Unwillingly, his eyes travel to the clock on his wall. His heart drops. Because the clock says it’s 4:13am, and the clock hasn’t stopped, and if it’s really 4:13am, then something isn’t right.

“The sun hasn’t risen yet.” Techno’s voice is quiet and insistent, touching memories in Dream’s mind he’d rather not remember. “The sun never rises this early, ‘specially not in the winter. That’s not the sun outside your window, Dream. That’s not even the sun. I think you know that deep down, right?”

“Techno,” Dream says, desperately, “I need to call in my favour.”

It’s not often that Dream manages to surprise Techno. Everyone else is easy to surprise - Techno expects so little and so much that it’s almost impossible to genuinely shock him. Today, however, is different: Techno stops, and stands incredibly still. "You've got an awfully selective memory," he drawls, finally.

“I know-” Dream gulps down air, stumbling on his words, “but I know that you owe me, I know that you do. I’m calling it in.”

This is not what he’d been saving his favour for, he’s certain. But there’s something wrong inside his head - something itching under the layers of cottage and sunlight he’d carefully constructed for himself - and he wants to eradicate it entirely, he wants to pull it out from his mind and never think about it again. 

Because he’s not an idiot - he knows his cottage isn’t quite accurate - but he’s also scared, so, so scared, and thinks maybe that living in a dream is better than facing reality.

“Make me forget,” he tells Techno, “I don’t want to remember any of it.”

And then, when Techno remains silent, he steps forwards, surrendering the last of his pride.

“Please, Techno. We’ll be even after this.”

Techno doesn’t move: instead, he looks at Dream with narrowed, sharp eyes. He sometimes forgets that Techno is probably the person that knows him the best out of everyone. What’s it like for him, he wants to ask, seeing his rival in such a pathetic state?

“You want to forget.” Techno says, slowly. “That’s not the Dream you used to be.”

Dream laughs, low and miserable. “I don’t think I’ve been him for a while,” he confesses, and Techno sighs.

“Look. I’ll do you one better.”

Dream looks up, hopeful and eager.

“I’ll make sure that you never forget again.” Techno crosses his arms, a tight promise in his tone. “Because you don’t deserve to be allowed to forget. And the longer you forget, the longer you’ll be locked up in here.”

Dream swallows back protests. Swallows down his cry of please, I’ve become a coward, I don’t want to remember this.

“You’ve done some awful things,” the other tells him bluntly, “and honestly, I doubt I’ll ever forgive you for what you’ve done to To- to the people I care about. Don’t think I’ve forgotten how you were going to lock me up in here.” His smile is grim. “You know, I don’t just eat raw potatoes, Dream. That was a bit of a mean move.”

Potatoes. Raw potatoes. Dream thinks of his meals recently, how they’ve been nothing but the same potatoes, over and over again. His stomach lurches jarringly suddenly, like he’s fallen from a height, like any minute now the consequence of doing so will catch up with him.

“So I’m gonna go.” Techno steps back from Dream, whose whole world has started to crumble around him. “I won’t be back, don’t worry. I’ve had enough of this place to last me a lifetime, thank you very much.”

“Don’t,” Dream says, incoherent in his panic and fear, _“please.”_

“I won’t forgive you yet, but, by the time you get out of here, I will have.” Techno steps towards the water in the corner, stretching his arms. “Consider this my favour to you done, Dream: I’m helping you remember to help you get out quicker. Because living in fantasy land isn’t gonna help you when you finally crash and burn from flying too close to the sun.”

He can’t remember. What is he supposed to do if he remembers? Dream steps forwards, hand rising to try and grab the other’s cloak. “Techno-”

“Think about Theseus, Dream.” Techno says, voice final. “And while you do, think about TommyInnit.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Dream grasping at nothing. Floundering, spinning around in his dark room, his home, he sees the walls of his cottage begin to crumble around him.

Fear settles into his bones like an old childhood coat, and Dream thinks the show is finally coming to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed!!! pls feel free to comment/leave kudos if you did - it means a lot!!
> 
> thank you so so much for reading!! this'll probably be finished by this time next week, if not sooner - when i'm done with this fic, i'll move onto another angsty dream one probably, because i'm a sucker for that LMAO,, 
> 
> feel free to hit me up on tumblr @dreamsclock or twitter @SOOTYSHOES with ideas!! :0


	4. cockerel cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream falls through the world, and the world doesn't give him a nice landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're finally here!! one chapter from the end!! this chapter was so fun but so tricky to write - i wanted to get it perfect, and though nothing is ever perfect, i'm pretty happy with this, and i hope you guys are too :D dream finally gets to the root of his problems in this chapter, and gets a visit from three very unexpected people. 
> 
> PLEASE read the trigger warnings below; the topics discussed are pretty dark and can be triggering to people suffering with derealisation, so please be careful!! enjoy reading, and ily all <3
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: death, self-destructiveness, un-reality, depersonalisation and derealisation, messing with reality, dream cannot figure out who he is, panic attacks, mentions of his past crimes/evil acts, hallucinations, delusions. 
> 
> enjoy!!! :]

Dream is imprisoned in darkness, and he doesn’t know if he should call it home.

Home had been more than a four lettered word to be scorned at, once upon a time. In the old days - in the stories he doesn’t like to remember - home had been a block building the middle of the server, filled with laughter and friendship; something  _ stronger  _ than friendship, he thinks distantly, some other four letter word that he’s frightened of. Home had been a place, a feeling, a concept brought together when a man with a fierce grin and another with freckles slept beside him, chased him through the woods, shared meals, secrets, lo-

_ Love.  _ He says it to himself, out loud, in his head, as the world crumbles around him. It fills him with terror, and, worse, with a strange abyss where he thinks love might have once been.  _ Love.  _ What a simple word for the thing that had torn him apart.

Because he remembers now, in bits and pieces that he can’t connect. He remembers grit under his fingernails while working on a project in the air, a black grid of death, while chaos erupts below him. He remembers a beach party gone wrong, fake words exchanged to a broken boy, pushing oh-so-carefully to break him more. He remembers breathing in the scent of fire and death like a drug, and he remembers liking it.

He also remembers not liking it, at the beginning, and wonders why he doesn’t remember when that changed.

The memories mean nothing to him; they’re a stranger’s, the belongings of someone unfamiliar that he can’t quite recognize. The stranger wears a mask; Dream touches his own face, slick with blood or tears or a combination of the two, and wonders if it’s him.

He isn’t in a cottage. He doesn’t know  _ where  _ he is. The world is dark and blistering hot and cruel, and everything hurts: every way he turns on the black floor burns his skin, every sound he makes is pained and hoarse, and no matter which way he turns, he’s met with the shattering revelation that he’s done something. 

He’s done something, and for the first time, he may not be able to fix it.

“Please,” he rasps into the void after hours, days, does time even exist anymore? “Please, help.”

The darkness stays dark. Maybe it’s punishment for Dream deluding himself into believing it had ever been something more. He’s a fool - the darkness has always been exactly what it says on the tin, and pretending it had ever been a cottage, a friend, a home, had only caused him to hurt more in the end.

Dream’s grief - or something like it - infects his bloodstream like poison, and the universe only stares at him. For the first time, he opens his eyes and stares back at the crumbling cottage walls that drip ink and blood like paint, and a thing shaped like home appears in the darkness. Eyes wide, Dream reaches for it, reaches for his home, and comes face to face with George.

Or, face to knee, because George is standing up, cool and collected as always, and Dream doesn’t have the strength to push himself to his feet. Or maybe  _ he’s  _ standing, and George is the one falling through the void, because the whole world is upside down and inside out, and Dream doesn’t know which way is up and which is down. 

“George?” He whispers, and then, when George doesn’t react,  _ “George. _ You- You came.”

George stares down at him, finally, and there’s such untouchable sadness in his eyes that Dream mourns too, though he can’t tell what his best friend is mourning. “Dream,” he replies, the darkness replies, something replies, through George’s mouth, “what happened to you?”

He almost laughs. He doesn’t have the energy, and it turns into an ugly sob instead. This isn’t the real George. It can’t be. The real George has long since lost interest in the events of the SMP, spending time with Karl when he’s around and Quackity when he’s not plotting and Sapnap when he’s not lost to the struggles of dealing with Dream’s lack of care - a beautiful butterfly, flitting between flowers and leaving when they begin to turn grey. The dethronement had been the last straw; Dream doesn’t remember seeing George again after that, and it  _ stings  _ to see his mind manifest him here. There’s no point in saying so; he just shuts his eyes, turns away from the cool hand George tries to face on his cheek. His hands are soft, and cool, and Dream wants nothing more for the real George to let him fall into his arms.

“You’ve been here for so long already,” George croons, “Dream, just look at me. Please.”

Dream opens his eyes. They’re wet. George is in front of him, a beacon in the darkness of a small cell he doesn’t remember, and he’s smiling, beautiful, unreal. 

“Stay here with me,” he requests, and Dream’s breath catches as the walls of his cottage reappear briefly, less of a flicker in his vision than they are gone and then suddenly there, “I’ll come and visit you every day.”

Dream sucks in a breath sharply through his teeth, pained. “George,” he murmurs, restless, “no, no, this- this isn’t real.”

The void smiles at him with George’s lips, uses George’s hands to cup his face, soft and pliant; Dream almost believes it. “You’ve told me before it’s less about what’s real and more about what people want to believe,” George says - it’s the truth, but Dream can’t believe it, if he ever wants to get out of this hellscape, he can’t, “Dream, maybe I’ll even live with you after a while.”

And from the start, hadn’t that been what he’d wanted? A home, peace, time with George? Dream’s heart aches, beats out of time with the rest of his body and soul. He can picture it now; waking up with George curled up beside him, face peaceful,  _ world  _ peaceful. He can see himself making George breakfast, waiting for Sapnap to come over - or maybe he lives with them too, he thinks, that would be nice - and they can all hang out together, just the three of them, all happy. 

He’d be happy, just like he has been living in delusion for so long. But then he thinks of the real George, who hasn’t visited him once, and then of Sapnap, who has stopped coming months ago, unable to face the shell his best friend had become of his former self. 

It’s Sapnap’s face that makes him detach himself from George’s inky grip, that makes the walls of the cottage wobble around him. “I can’t,” he says, and he regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth, wants to take them back and go back to oblivion, to delusion, but he presses onwards, “I can’t, George. I need to think, I need to get out of here. I need to…”

_ I need to make up for what I’ve done. _

And the world explodes around him in a burst of color that reminds him of fireworks and festivals and tyranny, crumpling like it had been made of paper; George is gone like he’d never been there to begin with. Maybe he hadn’t. Dream’s lungs burn with fire, and he struggles to take a breath. The sun from the cottage hasn’t gone anywhere - it’s brighter than ever, more painful, and it hurts to lie on the floor with its heat so close by. Dream gasps for breath that doesn’t come, and he’s never had a panic attack before, but he thinks, faintly, that he might be now. Either that, or he’s dying, and there’s no one around to watch his fall-

Except there is. In another time, in an earlier time, there are too  _ many _ people watching his fall - sad, angry,  _ satisfied  _ eyes watching as Tommy makes him throw his armor in a hole, as he’s killed twice, as he’s forced to plead for his life. In an earlier time, Dream doesn’t remember love; he remembers anger, fear.

Dream remembers love now. God, he mourns it.

The world burns around him, and he screws his eyes shut tightly, hands fisting tightly in his hair. Wilbur isn’t there to stop him burning, Techno isn’t there to pull his hands from his head - there’s nobody, and Dream knows he has nobody but himself to blame. It doesn’t stop him calling out to whoever might be listening, words choked, barely audible. 

Unsurprisingly, nobody answers.

And then someone does, yanking his head up sharply from the floor and scoffing under their breath. Dream looks up, and looks into the eyes of a smiling hooded mask.

_ This can’t be what I become, _ someone behind the mask laughs, contempt obvious.

Dream wants to cry.  _ It’s what you already are, _ he wants to tell his younger self, however hallucinatory,  _ you’re already lying to yourself about your reality. Don’t kid yourself. _

_ How do you mess up this badly? _ The mask asks, frustration layered into his voice. He drops Dream’s chin, lets him drop back to the floor, circling him like a hunter might their prey.  _ We had it all! We were going to get it all! How did you manage to lose it all when we were so close to finally winning? _

A flash of a memory; of Punz, leading people through a portal, of dismay, of horror when he realized exactly what defeat entailed for him. Dream remembers the mask being pulled off his face, tossed to the side so everyone could see. He presses his hands to his face now, digging his nails in to hide his expression. “By not caring as much as we could’ve,” he croaks, tired, thinking of how he’d been slowly docking Punz’s pay in the hopes he wouldn’t notice or care, “by having nobody.”

The mask scoffs.  _ It’s worth it, _ he claims,  _ for power and control and peace. _

Once upon a time, in a different story, Dream had agreed, and he’d fallen into delusions of a cottage that had lasted far too long. He is not that man any longer, so closes his eyes, and thinks of blowing up his real home. “Is it?”

And the masked man lunges at him with a snarl, an axe in his grip -  _ he’s going to kill me, Dream thinks in terror, he’s going to kill his own self because he’s scared, because he thinks it’s worth it, because he’s so far gone he can’t deal with seeing the consequences of his actions _ \- before he disappears, leaving Dream alone on the floor. Bloodstained fingers reach out, curl around something jagged on the floor. Obsidian, he recognizes after too long, struggling to get his hazy mind to focus, obsidian floors. 

It’s his favorite block, so that's nice to see. _Not_ nice to see. _Had been_ his favorite block. Once it had been oak - something he and a blonde boy had bonded over, right at the beginning - but then it had changed, from oak to obsidian to TNT, and now his favorite block is- His favorite block-

Does he have a favorite block? Dream’s fingers tighten around the floor. Does he have any features outside of being a villain? Or has he erased them all?

Who is he when he has nothing to call his own?

_ You’re my duckling,  _ his mother had whispered to him as a boy, voice warm like honey,  _ my boy. _ He’d grown older, gained different nicknames - s _ peedr-unner, rival, target,  _ eventually  _ friend  _ after several long years of being hunted, and then,  _ family.  _

_ Tyrant,  _ Wilbur had sneered at him when declaring independence, eyes bright with pride.

_ Traitor,  _ Tommy had yelled at him after Dream sided with Schlatt, his eyes bright not with pride, but with anger, hurt. Dream had laughed then.

_ Dictator. Monster. Psychopath. Evil. Manipulator. Villain.  _ They’re all roles, coats he pulls from his closet and dresses in when he needs to. He tries to peel the coat off now, and can’t see anything but blood underneath.

Who is he?

_ Who is he?  _

Dream falls through reality, through different versions of himself that are true and untrue in the same breath, and can't help but wonder if he's even real.

And then, hands. Hands grip his shoulders roughly, pull him back down to earth. Dream sucks in a breath, impossibly, and then manages two more. He’s only faintly aware that he’s trembling, hard. He doesn't have any idea where he is. Not his cottage, that's for sure. Not any cottage.

“...hear me?” 

Someone is speaking. _Inhale. Exhale._ Dream tries to focus on the here-and-now, tries to focus on the hands and the voice and the thumping of his heart in his chest. Inhale. _Exhale. Inhale._

“Dream?”

_Pause._ Because he recognizes that voice. He blinks, vision blurred but clearing the more he forces it to, and a hazy face swims into view. Dirty blonde hair, tired, old blue eyes. A grin that’s tentative, untrusting, agonisingly familiar.  Real. His hero is the first reality he’s faced in god knows how long, and Dream doesn’t know whether he should be relieved or terrified.

_Inhale,_ because he has to. _Exhale,_ because this isn’t his hero. This isn’t a hero who’s come to visit him. In real life, there are no such things, he reminds himself, as heroes and villains. He’s never been able to understand that before. But, staring up at his visitor now, finally awake, he begins to.

“Hey, Big D.” Tommy’s smile is wan. “Long time, no see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaahhhhh i really hope you enjoyed!! it's so surreal to be finishing a multi chapter fix again - it feels really good, and we only have one chapter left until the end. i hope this emotional build up has been worth it, and that this chapter felt like a release from everything that's been building up plot-wise and character-wise!!
> 
> if you did like, please feel free to leave a kudos and/or comment !! they mean the world to me and i'm always so happy re-reading them :D
> 
> the last chapter will probably be out on sunday; be on the lookout for it!! until then, peace out, and tysm for reading - your support means the absolute world to me.


	5. new beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream finds home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to the fifth and final chapter of “a place to call home”. this has been a while coming, and i feel so sad and so happy to have finished this — i hope it’s as good as you were hoping it to be, and i hope it makes you just as emotional as it made me to write. 
> 
> i’d like to thank all of you from the bottom of my heart for being so supportive and so encouraging from the beginning of this fic to the end. i would never have finished it if it hadn’t been for you guys being so sweet and so kind, so with everything i have, thank you, so so much: your comments and kudos make me feel so happy, and my confidence in my writing has improved so much. thank you :]
> 
> i decided to release the playlist for “a place to call home” — listen to it here if you want to!! (https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3h692PBnMnEx0dVpJN2HPR?si=T2ElJUQOSYq43-xurmsrYQ)
> 
> without further ado; on to the last chapter.

“I didn’t think you’d still call me that.” Dream’s voice is hoarse, ragged and tinted with exhaustion, but he recognises it for the first time in a long time. “It’s been a while.”

Tommy shrugs, awkward, and takes a step back, running a hand through his hair. “Well, I thought I’d break the ice a little,” he says, “you were having a panic attack, you should be thanking me, not critiquing my nicknaming skills. Fuck you.”

Dream laughs, and then, unable to believe the situation, sobs, and begins to push himself to his feet. He instantly stops when Tommy darts back a few steps; Jesus, the kid is skittish, but Dream can’t blame him. Between them hangs a lifetime worth of history in four short years - a revolution, a war, an exile, a finale. It feels impossible to breach the gap between them. 

Which, of course, only raises the question as to why Tommy is here.

 _Which, of course,_ only raises the suspicion that maybe this is just another hallucination. Dream sinks back down to the ground, wary, muscles screaming in protest, but it’s worth it when Tommy seems pacified. “It’s a stupid name,” Dream says, half hesitant. He doesn’t actually want to insult Tommy; even banter like this feels awkward.

 _“You’re_ stupid.” With uncertainty, Tommy crouches in front of him, far enough away that Dream can’t pull any tricks, and close enough that it’s not uncomfortable. “You’re a pretty stupid man, Dream, has anyone ever told you that?”

“Not recently.” Dream regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth; wincing, he changes the subject. “Not that I’m actually stupid, obviously. I’m actually incredibly clever.”

But the feigned arrogance doesn’t work - the amusement slides off Tommy’s face, and he chews on his bottom lip. “Right. I forgot. It’s been a while since you’ve had visitors.” 

“That’s-” _Mean,_ Dream goes to say, but the word dies on his tongue. It’s _true,_ he thinks instead. He tries to play it off instead. “I mean, it’s true. I don’t think I’ve been in much state to have visitors in the past few…”

Months? Days? Weeks? Time doesn’t exist in the prison, and even less so in his cottage. Time passes in the blink of an eye, and drags by like eternity in the same span. He’s never been a good judge on time, and, seeing the look on his face, Tommy snorts mirthlessly, scratching his neck. 

“It’s been a year,” he tells Dream, and Dream sucks in a breath, sharp, stunned, “and it’s been a hell of a year, let me tell you that.” 

He pauses, like he’s searching for words, or maybe he’s just giving Dream the time he needs to process. And time he needs — though he fears he’s had too much already. A whole _year_ had passed while he’d been stumbling through each bleary day delusional and blind, with no idea it had been happening. How many times has he had visitors and been completely out of it? Had he even _had_ any visitors, or had they been hallucinations too?

“I bet you’re wondering why I’m even here.” Tommy’s voice broke through his thought, gruff, nervous. Dream flips his gaze back to the kid, who looks a lot more tired than he remembers. He’s got new scars on his face, dark ones, almost black, and he’s wearing protective gear — some sort of hazmat suit, he thinks with some surprise. 

He swallows. “...Yeah,” he replies hesitantly, “I am.”

“Basically, the world’s gone to proper shit.” Tommy laughs roughly, swipes at his cheek, which has started bleeding from a nasty gash. “The world is _fucked,_ Dream.”

“Isn’t it always?” Is Dream’s response through cracked lips, and Tommy flashes him a startled smirk, unsure at the camaraderie. 

“This is _your_ world we’re speaking about, don’t forget. I blame you.”

A myriad of memories flicker through his mind; a red egg he ignored for too long, a hungry look on Bad’s face, a lingering sense of doom he’d felt every time he’d looked out over the lands. Yes, he knows he’s at least partially to blame for this. If he’d been more responsible, if he’d actually stopped to take care of the land, if he’d been less focused on disks…

“The Egg is gone, though,” Tommy says, “we had to- We lost-” He swallows, gnawing on his lip and getting to his feet again, beginning to pace. “We lost Karl to the Egg. He… He said to tell you he’s sorry. That you’ll see him again.”

Something like grief carves a home for itself in Dream’s chest, and for the first time in a long time, he allows it to stay. It clogs his throat, spreading its spores through his veins and limbs until it almost completely overtakes him. Karl. _Karl._ “He’s- He’s dead?” 

“Not- dead. With the Egg, I think. Or… he took it away somewhere.” Tommy frowns. “He’s a time traveller. Did you know that?”

For a second, Dream can picture Karl’s smile, cryptic and warm like the summer’s day, in the back of his mind. “I think he tells me later on. In the future,” he says, words heavy. “I think we talk.”

Tommy doesn’t ask him to elaborate - Dream doesn’t think he can. It’s more of a gut feeling than anything else. But the grief in his chest recedes enough to allow him to breathe, to process, and Dream promises that one day he’ll talk to Karl again. They’ll meet each other again, come rain or shine. They have to. He hadn’t gotten to say goodbye.

“Is everyone else okay?” He asks, desperately hoping for some positive news.

He gets it. “I mean, we could all really do with some therapy, but I feel like that’s a given.” When Dream snorts in agreement, Tommy presses on. “Yeah. We’re surviving. It’s been a hell of a fucking year, but we’re… alive. I pulled us all through, hah. Wilbur calls it my _‘plot armour’,_ which I didn’t really understand, but he said you’d think that was funny to hear.”

Dream has changed. He knows this because the words ‘plot armour’ don’t make him stiffen up in defensiveness, and don’t remind him of heroes and villains and Theseus. “He’s wrong,” he says, firmly, “you don’t have plot armour. You’re just… lucky.”

Tommy meets his eyes. There’s something approving lurking there. “Is that what you thought when you were chucked in here to begin with?” He asks.

“I don’t know what I thought back then. It’s all… Blurry. I guess a year is a long time.”

“A year is a long time.” Tommy echoes, pausing in his pacing and fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt, before taking a breath. “Look. I’ll cut to the chase, or whatever. I’m not here to forgive you. I don’t think I can.”

Dream feels like he’s been punched in the gut, but doesn’t speak. He sits exactly where he is, not daring to interrupt, not daring to move. 

“But-” Tommy lets out a breath, short, sharp. “Look, you did a lot of bad things. Those things I can’t forgive you for. But I don’t want you rotting in a prison here either.”

Hope; a flickering candle reignited. His breath hitches.

“Cause- Cause I’ve had a lot of time to think, Dream.” Tommy is rambling now; a sure sign of nerves, but it seems to do him good, to finally confront his problems and problem, in the form of Dream. “About everything. And you… What you did to me, during exile and after, what you made me and Tubbo go through- That was so, _so_ fucked up.” His hand fists in his hair; with a frustrated noise, he releases it, turning to face Dream properly with a frown. “But you don’t deserve to suffer in here. It’s not going to help anything. It’s not going to solve any of my problems, it’s not going to solve any of yours, clearly. It’s… just more suffering, in the end.”

And hasn’t the whole server devolved into nothing but suffering? Dream can’t remember the last time they’ve had peace without suffering, had _anything_ without suffering - it’s been a constant in their lives for so long now. It’s become a cycle, neverending, ceaseless, causing conflict after conflict and trauma after trauma. He’s not innocent; he’d been one of the biggest cogs in the machine.

But a cog can be replaced in the machine, and from the sounds of it, even with him gone, there’s still been suffering. The problem had been highlighted by him, but it hadn’t disappeared with him. Dream holds his breath, hardly daring to believe what he’s hearing. 

“So yeah,” Tommy says, laughing nervously, “fuck, man, is it just be, or are you making things really awkward?”

“You’re the one monologuing,” Dream points out, voice unsure, hopeful, “you said you were going to cut to the chase about five minutes ago.”

“You’re such a dickhead!” Tommy complains, a whine in his voice - _just like old times,_ Dream thinks, but there’s still an age and wariness in the kid’s eyes that signals not old times, but _new_ times, maybe, a new future. “I’m trying to be all wise and heroic, and you’re ruining it!”

It’s almost funny. Dream almost laughs. “You’ve never been very good at being the hero,” he says, and maybe it’s the rasp of gratitude in his voice that gives Tommy pause and makes him consider him with a new light. 

“You,” he says, “Were very good at playing the villain. Too good.”

And they’ve reached something monumental. Not forgiveness - Dream knows forgiveness might not ever come. ‘Forgive and forget’ can’t be applied in every circumstance, and this may as well be one of them. The things he’d put Tommy through had been unforgivable, he knows this. So it’s not forgiveness he reaches with Tommy. It’s understanding; a mutual, tired understanding that things are going to change, for the better.

Working against each other, they’d been formidable. Working with each other, with distance, with time, they might just bring change.

This chapter in Dream’s life had started with TommyInnit staring him down on obsidian floors he’d built; his new chapter starts with Tommy extending a hand to help him up. Dream takes it, hesitantly, and stumbles to his feet. Tommy moves back from him instantly, and Dream represses the urge to cry at the first human touch he’s had in nearly a year, but they both take a breath and they both deal. 

“You want some… I dunno, time alone, before we leave?” Tommy asks.

Dream snorts. “I’ve had enough of that to last me a lifetime.”

Tommy grins. “Good answer, dickhead,” he says, “get into the respawn point.”

This chapter of his life had started with lava. His new chapter starts with water, and a brusque nod of encouragement from Tommy. It would be symbolic, he thinks as the world goes dark, if he’d been living in a story. 

But this is his life, real life, and so he wakes up on the other side with Tommy near him, and Dream has never felt more alive. 

Leaving the prison feels like a fever dream - he doesn’t remember coming in, and Dream doesn’t know whether to try and take in every detail of the place that he can, or whether he should avoid looking at any of it. He settles for doing a mixture of both, and it isn’t long before he begins to see things he hadn’t been certain he’d ever see for real again. The Nether. A desk, where he presumes Sam had worked before the Egg incident. 

Speckled sunlight, scattering over the entrance to the prison when they get there. Dream stares at it, stunned, speechless, and a lump forms in his throat. 

“How’s it feel?” Tommy says from somewhere behind him. 

Dream forces out the words. “Different than I expected.”

“That’s so fucking vague,” Tommy mutters, but there’s nothing harsh in his voice. He understands.

It’s different because the server is different. It’s covered in dead bloodvines that leech red onto the ground and the buildings are half destroyed and there’s an odd, heavy air in the wind, like something has changed, like something - someone - has died. It’s different because _he’s_ different: he doesn’t feel like he used to. He doesn’t feel good; he hasn’t _healed,_ he hasn’t been redeemed, he hasn’t come close. But his head is heavier and it feels like he’s seeing the server for the first time, and in his mind, he reaches out to it, apologises. The server hums under his skin, exhausted, wounded, delighted to hear from its admin again.

And it’s then that Dream turns to Tommy. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. For everything I did to you and to Tubbo and- to everyone, really.”

Tommy pauses, arches an eyebrow, lets Dream continue in his awkward little unprompted speech.

“I really, really fucked you over. You in particular. I-” He blows out a breath, nervous. “I never should have manipulated you. Never should have tried to force you to be the hero. And I’m sorry.”

The silence hangs for a long, long moment, and Dream wants the ground to open up and swallow him while Tommy scrutinises him. “You’re a really shit apologiser,” Tommy tells him, “and I’m not going to say that it’s fine, or whatever, or I forgive you, but… thanks. For apologising. It’s nice to finally hear. It sounds like you mean it.”

Dream surprises himself with another truth. “I do,” he says, and then hesitates. “Is there… any way I can apologise to the others, too?”

Tommy’s eyebrows shoot high. “Are you fucking kidding me? There’s no escaping them. Half of them are in the Community House right now. I was gonna take you there, if you’re fine with it.”

“It’s- still standing?”

“Bad rebuilt it, after his whole… Insane Egg Arc that he went through.” Tommy wrinkles his nose. “That stupid fuckin’ building always stays standing one way or another. It’s the oldest thing on this server. It’s crazy.”

Warmth builds in Dream’s chest, something like joy. “Crazy,” he agrees, and Tommy exhales a short bark of laughter, “yeah. I’m fine with going there. I’d- I’d like to see it again.”

Tommy bounces ahead of him, the sun slowly beginning to sink over the hills far in the distance. “Come on then, big man,” he hollers, “let’s get going before it gets dark.”

Dream lets out a breath, and turns to face the prison portal. It shimmers purple at him, in goodbye, in good riddance, in good luck. It feels like the start of something new.

“Coming,” he calls back, slowly beginning to follow Tommy towards the setting sun, and finally, he thinks he’s going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you want to find my work anywhere else, or see more update on fics, or read smaller fics i write, please feel free to check out my tumblr @dreamsclock, where i post writing every day! 
> 
> feel free to leave a kudos and/or comment if you enjoyed ,, they mean the world to me :D
> 
> thank you so, so much again — i sincerely hope you enjoyed, and, for us, here is the end of the story. for dream, it’s just beginning. :’)

**Author's Note:**

> chapter one done, pog!! stay tuned for chapter two - there are gonna be five chapters, one for each person dream interacts with, so who do you think is coming up next??
> 
> tysm for reading: if you enjoyed, consider leaving a kudos or comment!! :D


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